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Sunday, 29 July 2018

This story received Honourable Mention in the Writers Federation of New Brunswick's short story competition a few years ago. It has been published in SHORTS Vol.1 (a limited edition printing). on commuterlit.com and will be featured in the upcoming short story collection - Boxes of Memories - to be published in the fall of 2018.Ship Breaking has to be one of the most difficult jobs in the world. There are three major ship breaking yards in the world. One of them is in Chittagong, Bangladesh. Injuries and death are always around the corner and yet, there is a line up for the jobs.I was inspired to write a short story based on my research of the yards for my novel, Dark Side of a Promise.

The Ship Breakers

The Neptune
Giant is a VLCC, a
very large crude carrier.
When it was completed in 1979, it ranked among the largest oil
tankers in the world. From bow to stern, 75 Cadillacs could park
bumper to bumper. The crews used bicycles to travel the elongated
deck. With a beam of nearly two hundred feet, five bungalows could be
placed lengthwise side by side across the deck; her keel is six
stories underwater. The raw steel is covered with over fifteen
hundred gallons of paint. She’d been given a lifespan of thirty
years; instead, she had sailed every ocean of the world, berthed at
every continent, rode many storm’s fierce waves and trolled the
endless seas for thirty-five years. Today is her final voyage.

Her last port of call, two
weeks ago, was Saint John, New Brunswick, with two million barrels of
Venezuelan crude. Now, the tanker cruises the Bay of Bengal at
fourteen knots. At that speed she requires five miles to come to a
dead stop. The ship breaking yards of Chittagong, Bangladesh, are
only four miles away. The captain brings the ship to starboard,
aiming the aging tanker directly at the muddy beach. The tide is
high, which is necessary to allow the gargantuan machine to ground
itself like an aged sea lion, as near to the shore as possible, where
it will die.

The engine that powers the
ship is eighty-nine feet long and forty-four feet wide with twelve
massive cylinders – one of the largest engines in the world. It
weighs two thousand metric tons costing more than the rest of the
transport. Its thirst for fuel demands over fifteen hundred gallons
of crude every hour. Its last chore will be to power the vessel onto
the tidal mud banks, where humans who are dwarfed by its immensity
will eventually take it apart, by hand, piece by piece. The work is
extremely dangerous, with an exceptionally high mortality rate, and
yet there is no shortage of men.

Of the approximately 45,000
ocean-going vessels in the world, about seven hundred per year are
taken out of service for dismantling. Many go to Alang, India, the
world’s largest ship breaking yard, or to Gadani, Pakistan, the
third largest after Chittagong. Where the ships go, the jobs go. As
difficult as the work may be, ship breaking is part of the momentum
powering the economy of a young Bangladesh. The owners of this
particular ship-breaking yard paid three million dollars for the
Neptune Giant.

With torches, sledgehammers,
steel wedges, brute force and painstaking drudgery, it will take six
months to dismantle the ship; one man will die and two men will be
injured by a thousand pound slab of steel cut from the behemoth’s
hide. It will net the owner millions more than he paid when he sells
the scrap metal and he will provide no compensation for men that
can’t work. They toil fourteen hours a day, with two half hour
breaks and an hour for lunch, six and a half days a week. The men
will eat their supper when their work shift ends. At least one
quarter of the workers are illiterate; one quarter are children. The
average wage is $1.25 per day.

*

Azhar Uddin is gently woken by
his father. It’s 4:30 a.m.

“Come, my little man, you
must join your brother at the table. You must leave for work soon.
Come now.”

Hafiz Uddin turns from his
son, supporting himself with his only arm grasped upon a homemade
crutch; the other arm is buried beneath the muddy beaches where he
once toiled, severed by falling steel at the same crippling yards
where he now sends his two sons. He wobbles even with his lopsided
support; the left knee and lower leg, the same side as the missing
arm, were wrecked in the accident also. Unable to find meaningful
work with only a single hand, one strong leg and a defeated spirit,
he remains dependent upon his male children: Nur is fourteen; Azhar
will be thirteen next week. Because they are exceptional workers,
they earn two hundred and sixty takas
a day, just over three dollars.

Rising slowly, Azhar sits up
on the side of the bed and rubs his shoulder. The dull ache in his
muscle reminds him of the steel pipes he helped carry all day. Long
straight bangs of the fiercest black hang over his narrow forehead.
His brown boyish skin is smooth and untroubled, not yet marked by the
lines of struggle. A slight dimple on the end of his nose balances
the squareness of his jaw. The man’s work he does has not taken the
childish shine from his eyes. Blinking the sleepy fog from his brow,
he rises to find his work clothes neatly folded at the foot of his
bed. His father washed and hung them to dry before he retired for the
night, as he would have done for Azhar’s older brother, Nur, also.
There are no women in the house.

Azhar slips on his red and
blue striped shirt, the collar and cuffs worn thin bearing unravelled
threads. Wrapping a green and yellow lungi
around his slim hips, he ties a double pretzel knot to keep it
secure. He often wishes for trousers to protect his legs, but they
would be too hot for work, and he knows there is no money for such
luxuries. Every spare taka
is sent to his mother, Naju, in Dhaka. He ponders a moment, thinking
of her and his sisters. Rayhana is eleven and works with his mother;
and Tasleema is six. He hasn’t seen them for over four months. It
is for Tasleema that they all work and save whatever is possible so
that she can go to school. As he thinks of her glowing eyes and tiny
face, he remembers her promise.

“When we are together again,
Azhar, I will teach you to read.”

The thought causes him to bend
down to retrieve the tattered comic book from under his bed. In the
dim light of the bare bulb from the kitchen, he scans the torn cover.
The masked man with the flowing cape, he knows, is called Batman.
One of his first jobs when he was only ten was to retrieve any usable
items from the grounded ships that could be sold to the recyclers:
rolls of unused toilet paper, cleaning supplies, pots and pans,
furniture, bedding, tools, discarded books, coastal maps, light
bulbs, cans of paint, rope, wire. The comic book had been in a waste
basket; it was torn and thick with many readings. Azhar had seen
other comics before, but he wondered where this one came from and how
far it had travelled when he found it. His boss Mojnu told him to
keep it, otherwise it was being tossed out. He was always impressed
by the colored pages, the photos of cars, tall buildings, fancy
clothes, fight scenes, smiles and scowls – and he longed to know
what the squiggly words mean. More than anything, he wants to read.

Tossing the book under the bed
once more, he tugs the frugal sheets into place neatly, as his father
expects, before joining his brother at the table. Their home is
corrugated metal divided into two rooms with few possessions, its
shape a replica of the many shanties lining the dirt street where he
lives. Theirs is different because their father keeps it clean. The
walls are painted a bright blue inside and out; their roof doesn’t
leak when it rains.

The smell of oatmeal greets
him as it drifts from the boiling pot his father is bent over,
stirring, on the Bondhu Chula, a cook stove. Oatmeal for breakfast is
not common in their home or their neighbors’ for that matter. Most
breakfasts are rice, sometimes with red or green chillies. Or
paratha, a pan fried unleavened flat bread. Yesterday Old Angus
Macdonald, the burly Scotsman who visited them sometimes, had dropped
off a bag of rolled oats. They have no idea where he lives or where
he comes from. They only know him from the story their father has
told them.

The man was almost seventy
when he commanded the Atlantic Pride, one of Canada’s largest
ferries, to the yards in Chittagong when it was retired four years
ago. He stepped onto shore after he grounded the ship and he never
left. When the torches cut a section of aged steel from the nose of
that very ship, a huge chunk crashed to the ground beside Hafiz,
pinning his arm to the sand and breaking his leg. Had the piece
fallen several inches to the left, Hafiz would`ve died. Maybe that
was why the elderly man stopped by once in a while with a bag of oats
or some other staples and a few taka notes. He never stayed long,
spoke very little Bengali. Always laughing, always a mystery.

Nur sits in front of a dish of
flatbread, resting on a makeshift table, which is a piece of
discarded plywood his father has sanded, painted and polished. It’s
the same teal that decorates the home, the same teal Hafiz got for
free. Nur looks up with his usual wide grin.

“Good morning, little
brother. Will you be having paratha or paratha for your meals today?”

Hafiz has his back to his
boys, cooking their breakfast. He doesn’t turn around when he
scolds his oldest son.

“Be thankful you have food, Nur. There are
neighbors who may not have any today, or tomorrow. Don’t make fun.
And Azhar, wash up, do your morning duties, and hurry. This is almost
done.”

Both boys answer in unison,
“Yes, Baba.”

The man that owns the property
their home sits on is the same individual who owns the breaking yard
the boys work at. Not totally without empathy, he provides running
water and outhouses. Perhaps it is benevolence that has him supply
these accommodations; it’s also his desire that his employees
should be healthy so they don’t miss work. Hence the covered
latrines and cold, life-giving Adam’s ale. Azhar goes to the
sideboard, where water heated by his father steams from an old
porcelain basin that is storied with nicks and scratches. He washes
the sleep from his face, tames the cowlicks on his head, before
taking the bowl outdoors to discard the soapy residue. Setting it on
the doorstep, he rushes to the outhouse to complete his morning
ritual. Returning to the kitchen, he finds Nur bent over a smoking
bowl of hot porridge with the grandest of smiles.

“Azhar, we have brown sugar
this morning. Our Baba is good to us.”

Hafiz sits at the opposite end
of the table, his own porridge barren of anything sweet. There is
only enough for the boys, he feels. The used plastic bag that sits
on the table holds about three tablespoons of crumbly dark crystals.
Azhar sits at his seat, an upended orange crate padded with a cushion
his mother made.

“Eat up boys. Divide that
between you.”

As Nur digs into the bag,
Azhar watches his father stir his breakfast to cool it, knowing such
a treat is rare.

“What about you, Baba?”

Nur halts his sprinkling to
look at his father.

“No, no, I don’t want any.
Take it. And hurry, Ismail will be along soon with the truck to take
you to work.”

Suddenly the kettle’s steam
whistle erupts. Hafiz sits closest to the cook stove and twists about
with his single arm to lift the heated pot to fill the three mugs for
tea. When his father turns his back, Azhar hastily reaches into the
bag, pulling out almost half of what is left. He stretches to
sprinkle the sugar about his father’s bowl. Nur grins and tosses in
what is left on his spoon. The boys are giggling as Hafiz turns
around with the first of the mugs.

He stops mid-swing when he
sees what they have done. He guesses it to be Azhar, so much like his
mother. He holds his youngest son’s gaze for a moment before
looking at Nur. Mistaking the look on their father’s face, thinking
him upset, the boys grow quiet. Hafiz briefly studies his sons, soon
off to do men’s work, still childlike in their hearts. He yearns
for them to run free, not to need their strong backs to survive. He
is overcome with this simple gesture of love; a glistening tear
zigzags down his haggard cheek.

“Thank you, my sons. You are
fine men.”

With everyone shy, the meal
passes in solitude. The boys hastily finish so they can get ready for
work.

The End

Thanks for visiting this week and I hope you enjoyed the visit to the yards and family of Bangladesh. Please feel free to leave a comment.

Saturday, 21 July 2018

Life for Mr. Payne had been quite normal until tragedy struck in 2001. His sister, Amber, and her best friend, while on holidays in Venezuela, died at the hands of one of the world's most evil men. (photo credit - Rene Bohmer. Upsplash.com)It took three long years to find the man that did it. The law was ineffective in bringing him to justice. Payne turned to his friend, Drake Alexander, a former Canadian Commando, to find Bartolo Rizzato. Together, with the help of several ex-soldiers, a French ex-pat and a Bengali cop, they found him...and they killed him (Dark Side of a Promise)From that day forward they vowed to scour the Earth for men or women that escape the law, evil people that the world would be better rid of! (Wall of War)So yes, Payne and his cohorts are vigilantes.Williston Payne has agreed to an exclusive interview on the Scribbler.4Q: Are you a vigilante?

Photo credit: Thomas Tucker. Upsplash.com

WP: Do I take the law in my own hands? Yes. I have great respect for the justice system in most countries, I mean I'm a lawyer after all, but there are too many criminals that escape their due punishment. When my sister was murdered, it changed my life. There was too many law enforcement agencies involved because Rizzato was an international troublemaker plus he was very clever at hiding. There came a point when I had to turn to my best friend to help. He's the soldier, I'm an information man but I'm no hero. Drake Alexander is a good man, deadly and afraid of no one. I eventually found out through my contacts that Rizzato was in Bangladesh. Drake and his team did the rest until we trapped him in Panama. Unfortunately, we couldn't arrest him. He ended up being lunch for a carnivorous beast and I'm not the least bit sorry.Once we got a taste for revenge, we were hooked. Now we look for trouble.4Q: Running a team of ex-soldiers and searching the world for criminals must be expensive. Who foots the bill for all this?WP: As for myself, I've been fortunate throughout my career as a lawyer. Over the years I built a successful company of law offices in the US, Canada and several countries in Europe dealing with international tax issues. Needless to say, I've become quite wealthy. During the search for Amber's killer, I retired from the business which is now under control of my brother and other trusted managers. We moved our command center to my Yacht. We have our own aircraft and can move anywhere, anytime. I'm an info addict. I love collecting other people's secrets. I have contacts all over the world and if I need to know something, I can usually find it.

Photo credit: Kony Xyzx. Upsplash.com

As for the rest of out team, Drake in an heir to a jewellery company that his grandfather established in 1915 in New Brunswick and his father managed in his later years. His mother was the only child of another jewellery family and she met Drake's father at a buying show in New York. Together they established a chain of stores in Atlantic Canada and New England. Normally Drake would've taken over the business but he's not interested. All his life he only wanted to be a soldier. But he still owns the majority of the business and money is no problem.As for the others, there are two more retired soldiers. Dakin Rush, is a co-owner of a security firm and he's free to travel. Isaac Glass and his father own a helicopter company that pretty well runs itself, so he's good to go. His girlfriend, Plum, is an ex-convict and she goes where he goes.No, money is not an issue.4Q: What was the latest caper you and the team have been involved with?

WP: Recently, a man very close to Drake, a priest actually, discovered a strange document and an ancient gold dagger while renovating the church he was in charge of. The information it reveled got into the wrong hands. It wasn't long before Miguel Pisconte was in trouble. He accidently killed a young man and was kidnapped by a Spanish raider. Pisconte was unwilling to talk until his sister was taken prisoner by the same sinister people. We tracked them down to Peru, discovered a strange monument built of solid gold by the Inca hidden in the Andes and set a trap for the bad guys. Drake rescued them and Turi Salcedo is dead. 4Q: Wow. That's heavy stuff. I'm afraid to ask what's next?

Photo credit: Annie Spratt. Upsplash.com

WP: Interestingly enough, one of our team members, Mireille Lambert, was with the Securite National in France until she met a Bengali Police Officer and fell in love. They married and she moved to Bangladesh with him and together they formed a private investigation company. She led us through the labyrinth of rivers there and the city of Dhaka. She died during the search for Salcedo and his men. When we attended her funeral in France, we met the master vintner of her parent's estate. His daughter was killed by the Monteau brothers on their bank robbing spree in the early 1980's. That's over twenty years ago and they've never been caught. We're going after them. It's been tough so far, it's almost as if they disappeared completely but not to worry, we'll find them.Thank you Williston for being our guest this week. You certainly lead an interesting life.

And thank you dear readers for joining me this week to meet Mr. Williston Payne.**Note: Williston Payne if a fictional character. As a tribute to one of my dearest friends whose last name is Williston, I've dedicated this character to him.Feel free to leave a comment. Would love to hear from you!

Saturday, 14 July 2018

This is the working title of my work-in-progress (WIP) and I'm having such fun in writing this historical account of Dominic Alexander (Drake Alexander's grandfather) who immigrates to Canada in 1915 and establishes himself in Moncton. One of my main character's is a young lady that come to work for him and as nature would have it, they fall in love. Her name is Maria Desjardin, from Notre Dame, New Brunswick.Maria is normally an easy going lady but there's a feisty side to her.

In 1917, during the First World War, there is a shortage of men for many factories and workplaces. The cotton mill in Moncton hires many women. They don't make the same wages, for the same work, as men do. Maria Desjardin doesn't stand for that.

An excerpt from The Alexanders. (Copyright is held by the author)

The
tower of the cotton mill looms menacingly, like a fist, above the small crowd
gathered in the shadows of the office door. The last Friday of September has
not started off peacefully in the east end of Moncton. Odors from the workings
of raw cotton float in the light autumn breeze. The sun barely crests the
horizon yet a cluster of shouting woman and several men are waving and
demanding that the owner, Baylor Crosswaithe, treat his female employs fairly.
They make a glut along the driveway so no one can exit or enter without running
over them. It came to light that female weavers are making three dollars an
hour less than men doing the same work. Young children also labor at the mill
for very low wages. The crowd is angry.

It is unlikely that Crosswaithe will show his
face, mainly because he doesn’t care. He has stated publicly that the mill is
his business and he will run it as he sees fit. If the workers don’t like their
wages, they are free to look elsewhere. The truth of the matter is that the
mill is in financial difficulty and Crosswaithe is scrambling to keep the
business operating. There is an abundance of cotton mills throughout the
country driving the prices down.

Maria
Desjardin decides that enough is enough and against Dominic’s wishes that she
not be involved she makes phone calls and organizes rallies. It has a mild
adverse effect on the business and it is the first heated conversations they
have in their relationship. He agrees with her but wants her out of sight.
Today she is at the forefront of the protestors. She is also the loudest.

“It’s
not fair that your ladies work so hard for wages that are unequal”

The
other women, Emma included, along with twelve of their friends and
acquaintances and a handful of husbands are making a racket and waving hand
drawn placards, demanding equal rights. Denise wanted to be there but had to
work at the store, especially since Maria organized the rally and she hasn’t
told Dominic. The suffragette movement has been slow to reach Moncton, but these
are the same ladies that are most vocal for equality. Other woman are afraid of
their husbands, or their employers or their disagreeable families to be
involved publicly, some write letters of protest, others say and do nothing. The bunch gathered are just as verbal as their
leader.

“Give
woman the same money as the men!”

“Tell
Crosswaithe that we demand an audience!”

“How
can you sleep knowing women are treated so unfairly?”

“We
want some answers!”

The
commotion is being witnessed by people on the periphery, not involved but
intrigued by the uncommon sight of woman creating such a disturbance. Most of
the protestors are in everyday wear but one is with elegant jacket and skirts
of the latest fashion, namely Mildred Van Geist.Van Geist is not as boisterous but her
presence lends gravity to the cause. Much to her husband’s chagrin, she too has
an effect on his banking business.Men
in delivery carts, people walking to work or going to the hospital up the
street, are watching. Not everyone is sympathetic, especially domineering
males.

At the opposite end of the building, so too is
a loose group of workers staring, lingering at the worker’s entrance, fronted
by three burly men glaring at the woman with hateful glazes who are shaking
their fists at them and yelling abuse. Maria shakes her fist back at them, as
do others. The men take offence and advance on the crowd but are only a few
steps away when the shift whistle blares calling them to work. More fist waves
and the workers disappear in the side entrance while those ending their workday
hustle away from the crowd, knowing what’s going on and have been warned by
their supervisors to give no heed to the disruptive behaviour out front, to
ignore the ideas they are spreading. The women especially are reminded of how
fortunate they are to have a job.None
hang around.

From
the front doors comes a portly man, tie askew, trousers bagging at the knees.
Angry eyes bulge from a hairless head except for a few wisps around small ears.
The mouth is almost a snarl. Behind him is two ruffians that work in the
warehouse. They’re known for their quick temper and heavy lifting has made them
strong. The mill manager, Wade Flanagan, is a misogynist and finds aggressive
females annoying, especially this troublesome Desjardin woman that has been
disrupting their peace. Stepping closely to Maria he waves for attention. The
crowd quiets except for their leader. Maria has arms akimbo, a folded umbrella hanging
on one arm and an unhappy expression.

“Where’s
Crosswaithe?” she demands.

Flanagan
flips his hand as if the idea is absurd. His voice is raspy and pompous.

“Mr.
Crosswaithe does not have time for you troublemakers. Nor do we. I’d advise you
to leave the premises at once, you are on private property. We’ve called the
police as well and they should be here soon, so it’s better you go peacefully.”

Pointing
his finger at Maria, his voice lowers, more spiteful. She hears him quite
clearly amidst the clamour of the crowd.

“I
know who you are Miss Desjardin, I’d advise you to be more careful. One can
only wonder what your fiancée must think. Perhaps he should remember who buy’s
his jewellery and pays for his services, certainly not these peasants you care
so much about. Mr. Crosswaithe is a very big part of the financial community
her in Moncton and can be influential. Do you know that word, influential, as
in advising his associates to buy elsewhere? Hmm?”

Maria
is about to let loose with a barrage of unkind words when a deeper voice calls
for calm.

“Quiet
everyone, quiet. People stop your yelling. You two in the back, un-ball those
fists. Stop waving that umbrella so threateningly young lady. Mr. Flanagan,
perhaps you could step back a bit and tell me what’s going on here.”

The
police officer is thick chested and tall, authority and a shiny badge makes
people stop their fidgeting and they close in to hear what is being said.
Officer Melanson steps between Maria and Flanagan who are staring darts at each
other. Maria starts to complain when Melanson holds a hand out to wait her
turn. Nodding at the manager, he prompts him once more.

“What’s
all the fuss about her now, Flanagan?”

Chin
in the air he points at Maria.

“She’s
egging this bunch of rowdies on, Officer. It’s disrupting our business and they
are on private property as well. We’d like them to disperse as soon as
possible. They make such foolish demands, asking for Crosswaithe of all things,
as if he has time to deal with these troublemakers. I’d like it if you and your
fellow officer I see over there to get this crowd moving. In fact I demand it!”

Melanson
doesn’t like the manager’s attitude and knows a few of the women here. He is
also aware of the unfair labor practices in the factories but he must uphold
the law. Turning to Maria, he tries a half smile begging her indulgence.

“So
its troublemakers you are, ladies and gents? You know we can’t have that.
You’ll need to go home now. You’re holding up traffic and there are delivery
carts waiting to get in and you are on someone else’s property.”

The
group lower their cards and their shoulders, some starting to move on wending
through a crowd of gatherers, some of which are not friendly. Maria respects
the law and doesn’t want any trouble, only to be listened to. She watches
Flanagan beam a smug look at the thinning assembly and she sees all the
rottenness in his manner.

“You’ll
not get away with this much longer Mister. The indecent way you treat your
women.”

Flanagan
can see that the police are moving people away and feels he has won. Only she
can hear him.

“It’s
better than most deserve. Humph!”

Despising
him so much, she doesn’t even think. Running forward with umbrella raised, she
whacks him on the head. Before Officer Melanson can contain her she’s hit him
several times. One of the blows from the long stem of her weapon hit him on the
nose and made it bleed. Another to the side of the head makes it on the next
day’s front page of the Transcript. The flash from the photographer’s camera
apparatus catches another of Maria being escorted to the police car.

Flanagan
rushes into the building with his blood stained handkerchief held tightly to
his nose. The two bodyguards block the entrance. Putting Maria in the back
seat, the other officer drives and Melanson sits beside her, his manner abrupt,
asking her questions while taking notes. What’s her name? Where does she live?
Etc. They take Maria home. Since Dominic has been back, she moved in with Emma
where they were going to take her but she convinces Officer Melanson that she
is needed at work and he will know where she is. She promises to go directly to
her aunt’s place after work. Melanson can be a soft touch sometimes for a
pretty girl. Trusting her to her word he does as she asks. When they arrive,
before she is allowed out of the car, she is chastised severely by Melanson for
her actions, it’s possible that Flanagan may lay charges against her for
assault. There’s a tinge of sympathy in his voice when he reaches over to open
the other car door so she can get out.

“You’ll
not able to do any protesting if you’re sitting in jail. Stay off their
property. Don’t go anywhere until we tell you to. You could still be in a lot
of trouble. Otherwise the day is still long, I hope the rest is more peaceful
Miss Desjardins.”

Maria
knows enough to keep quiet, the realization of what she’s done sinks in. She
begins to worry about Dominic’s reaction. She hopes he’s outback doing repairs.
Lifting her skirts to slide out, she steps carefully onto the driveway, waving
over her shoulder.

“Thank
you Officer.”

Thank you faithful reader for joining us this week. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt. I would love to hear your comments.

Saturday, 7 July 2018

I expect you've heard of the Firth of Forth, an estuary (firth) of the River Forth in Scotland, well this is the First and the Fourth for the Scribbler and Chuck Bowie.First time for the Scribbler and the Fourth visit from Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, New Brunswick.

And Donovan's Back Too!

Chuck's fourth novel, The Body on the Underwater Road, is ready to launch on July 27th at Westminster Books in Fredericton and as a special treat for all you faithful readers Chuck is back to tells us about writing this series.

I've got my copy and it's next on my list.

Make sure you follow the links below to catch up on Chuck's previous visits.

Take it away my friend,

The Perils of Coming Home

-Chuck
Bowie, July, 2018

-Written
for The South Branch Scribbler

Thomas Wolfe suggests you can never go
home again. As I think of that phrase, I think about those who say a river
constantly changes. So, if you stick a foot in, pull it out and place it in
exactly the same spot, it will be a different experience, because that previous
cubic foot of water has moved on, and the sand and pebbles beneath your foot
have shifted. Try visiting your childhood home, and imagine it is exactly as it
was when you were seven years old. Or ten. This will not work. You have moved
on. A new owner—several new owners!—have changed the old homestead in so many
little ways. That vibe of nostalgia or childhood simplicity is gone, together
with the plaid sofa and giant flowered wallpaper.

I am in the middle (or maybe nearing
the end, I’m not sure) of writing a suspense-thriller series. I’ve finished
Book 4, actually: The Body on the Underwater Road. As I mentioned, it’s a
thriller so it has murder, bad guys, action, shenanigans, quite serious stuff
weaving a plot designed to keep you interested and entertained.

I’ve written three other thrillers as
well. The first: Three Wrongs is of the classic variety, with a detailed back
story to help you understand why my contract thief is so complex. The second
novel: AMACAT is somewhat lighter in tone, but with similar ‘thriller’
elements. I digress to an extent with my third novel: Steal It All, in that it
is formatted a bit like a police procedural, and I stray a bit from the ‘loner
with his own moral code’ approach.

But Book 4 is different, in a couple of
ways.

In The Body—may I call it The Body? (I
suppose I could call it TBOTUR; I do like acronyms)—I have written the bulk of
the novel with scenes of New Brunswick, my home province. The opportunity cost
of such a decision is I fail in my attempt to incorporate four countries in the
plot setting(s). This was a conscious decision, where I wished to return home,
so to speak, and write a tale set in my backyard. I wanted to show off my home
province to you, Gentle Reader, who may have never got here to visit. Shame on
you! by the way, for not having made this attempt.

My protagonist, Donovan, is a contract
thief who travels the world, separating owners from their material goods, and
he does this for great profit. It’s Robin Hood, basically, minus the messy
middle element of altruism and generous heart. So, he steals from the rich, and
gives to the less rich: himself. But I digress. Anyway, our man Donovan visits
a charming New Brunswick seaside town in an attempt to solve a crime and coincidentally
cut down on the murdering of tourists.

In hindsight, I now see The Body
differs in at least two ways from the other books in the same series. As I
mentioned, we visit three locales, but only two countries. I hope my readers
don’t feel ripped off; in fact, I’ve had one article written where the reviewer
found this reduction in exotic travel to be a tad disappointing.

The other way, though, that Book 4
differs is with fewer narrative arcs to the plot. We find a primary plot, and a
secondary plot. Simple. However, what I attempted to do in this case was to
analyze an extended family dynamic. In doing so, I wanted to permit the reader
to peek through the curtains into someone’s family (someone very rich, in this
case) and visualize what home can mean to a fractured, dysfunctional family. My
little irony is I do this in my back yard.

I believe I stayed true to my
character’s development as a contract thief seeking redemption. And if you,
Gentle Reader, read about the Parker clan and somehow think even more highly
about your own eccentric brood, well, all the better!

And now back to Mr. Thomas Wolfe. Why
can you never go home again? I do not actually believe this, at least, not
literally. One can certainly come home, but one cannot expect it to be the same
as before. So, I bring our protagonist Donovan to New Brunswick, but somehow,
the novel, while still a thriller, is…different. I became interested in how
people can change, and I didn’t focus as much on all-action-all-the-time
writing. (There is action; I quite like the trouble I’ve placed my characters in,
especially toward the end! But I hope you can ‘see’ the towns, the beaches, the
estates, the vineyard…)

I tried to add depth to the characters
and their families, make them more human, make them real. In doing so, I
brought you to quiet, nothing-ever-happens New Brunswick. And I made stuff
happen. I hope you like it.

I’m already thinking about Book 5,
where I return to lots of action, very bad people, and who knows? Maybe a theft
or two. Won’t you come along for the ride?

An Excerpt from The Body on the Underwater Road. (Copyright held by the author. Used with permission)

Montauk

An old Ford pickup rolled down a coastline country lane skirting the
North Shore of Long Island Sound, a few miles from Port Jefferson. Moonlight
glanced off the remaining piece of his rear-view mirror, but the faint glow on
the gray primer coat turned the truck into a ghostly image of itself. The
muffler, one of the few things that worked well, burbled low and smooth,
attracting little attention. The lone occupant sat behind the wheel, radio off,
his left elbow outside the opened window, catching a bit of the late-night
breeze.

The trucked traveled well under the speed limit, further
reducing its engine’s sound to a murmur. Harry Rafuse made an abrupt turn into
an almost-hidden drive without slowing, slipped the truck into neutral and
coasted the remaining fifty feet. The pine branches caressed the passenger side
on the way by, making a swishing sound as the Ford came to a stop near a dark
building. The engine ticked as it cooled, but other than that, few sounds broke
the still night air. He opened the door. His key was ready as he slid from the
truck seat and then took care to bring the door to, but not closing it so as to
make the latch sound, and in a moment he was inside the small storage shed.

There were no windows and Harry had the lights on as
soon as the door was completely shut. He stood at a slight bend since there was
no space to stand properly, peering down the tiny path through the middle of
the single room. For a building with such an impoverished exterior, its
contents were startling in their grandeur. The rear quarter of the compact room
was packed to the rafters with scores of paintings. Beside them rested a few
European cabinets and hutches, moving van blankets separating the lowers from
the uppers. As he moved to the back, he brushed against wooden crates
containing art pieces, mementos, statuary, and vases. Hundreds of pieces of
antique jewellery rested in glass cases on shelves above the crates. Beside
him, individually boxed, were unique, one-off artefacts, most of which had
proven provenances, causing their value to quadruple.

“What do you think, Harry? Have we hit the seven million
mark yet?” He grinned in the dim light. It would have been so much easier to
unload it all in the shops of Manhattan, or in the galleries in the outlying
boroughs. But these pieces were known. Known to have been stolen, known to be
the trigger that would set the police dogs on him. He shook his head. I’m not going to jail because of laziness.
I’ll just have to ship them off a ways, set them loose in Canada, someplace I’m
not known. That would certainly change my status. I don’t think the cousins
would turn their noses up at me if I coasted into their snobby driveways in a
Ferrari.

Harry thought of an incident the other day, when a
plainclothes detective knocked on his door for a chat. Did he know about the
MacQuart estate having been robbed in April? Did he have any information to
share regarding a ruby-and-emerald bracelet, turn of the century, crafted in
India? No? Was he sure? Of course I was
sure. I was sure not going to chat with you about my business. Jerk.

But that was an anomaly, a crime of opportunism. More
than half of the contents of this room came from a single source. An awful grin
began to twist his face. I get the goods,
and the insurance money changed hands. Sure, someone lost out, but isn’t that
the cost of doing business? He laid a hand on the nearest crate, the one
containing the MacQuart bracelet. It calmed him to be so close to such wealth,
knowing it would soon be shoring up the cupboard-is-bare Rafuse bank account.
He smiled.

Some collectors
love this shit. Can’t get enough of it. All Harry
saw was crap that needed to be converted into greenbacks. The cop, together
with the news he received from his now-ex colleague Waugh reinforced his need
to leave town. The sooner he split this burg and landed in St. Andrews, the
better. And that French guy. He’s going
to be just the ticket to unload a big chunk of this, once I move it into
Canada. He seemed hungry for business. I’ll give him the business, all right.

Thank you Chuck for being our featured guest this week.

For you readers that want to learn more about Chuck and his stories, please follow the links to his website and his previous visits.

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Wall of War

Allan Hudson

About Me

My mother taught me to read, to like books, when I was very young. She also taught me how to write. I grew up in the country, even went to a one-room school which was right across the road from our house. She was the teacher. The days I missed were few.

Writing is so much fun and even though I started later in life, I am so happy to realize my dream. Having this blog so I can share other people's work gives me great pleasure.

I've had many adventures in my life. I've travelled throughout North America, gone skydiving, rock climbing, wilderness camping. I craft stained glass and I enjoy woodworking. I'm blessed with many good friends.

I live in the seaside community of Cocagne, New Brunswick, Canada. My wife's name is Gloria. My son's name is Adam and my stepsons' names are Christopher (Mireille) and Mark (Nathalie) Young. My grandchildren are Matthieu, Natasha and Damien. I love them all.

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy my blog. You can reach me by leaving a comment and/or your email address and I'll respond.

Family and Friends.

Review of Wall of War

Buy it Here

Wall of War is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Watch for it with the coming selection of short stories to be published in 2018